


Making plans

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Furiosa is the most eaten out character in fandom history, Groping, Teasing, Vaginal Sex, inappropriate vehicular activity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 06:10:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14129775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: She’s breathing faster, hands gripping the wheel. His fingers are slowly teasing their way up her thigh.In which Max loves Furiosa's thighs.Fill for thesmutty_arts prompt challenge, inspired byyoukaiyume's lovely NSFW art.





	Making plans

She wakes before dawn – before she needs to, even for an early start. Today is the Gastown run. It’s a routine trip, but a buzz of nerves has her out of bed, ready to check her kit again. Beside her, Max stirs and mumbles and snuggles back under the covers.

She moves quietly about the room, wanting to let him sleep. He’s had fewer nightmares lately, but uninterrupted rest is still precious. Long practice means she can be almost silent when putting her arm on, even in near darkness. She’s careful to move easily, but without the stealth that might trigger his defensive instincts.

The morning light is grey when she moves back to the bed, ready to prod him awake. She has a real bed, with a frame, the mattress raised off the ground. It’s a luxury, easier on her bones than sleeping mats. Max is a hump of blankets, his face just above knee height when he pokes his head out, just at the moment she reaches down to touch him.

From this angle, she thinks his eyes are still closed: all she can see are his eyelids, with their long lashes. Then she realises he’s just looking straight ahead. She ruffles his hair, can’t resist, smiles at the grumbling hum he makes. He seems preoccupied when he gets up and dressed, but it is still early; perhaps he’s sleepy.

She’s not driving the rig today. Toast is on driving duty, which doubles as a test for her and for the new rig’s adjustable seat. 

“Can reach just _fine_ ,” Toast says, chin lifting, before Furiosa has a chance to ask. 

Max and Furiosa are taking one of the pursuit vehicles. It’s only just out of the repair shop, and she’s already planning more mods to it, but the engine is in good shape, ready for a test run. It’s made with a single bench seat, and when Max gets in he slides too far over, his thigh against hers and his knee too close to the gearstick. He shuffles away when she prods him. Toast whoops as she starts the rig, and the pursuit vehicles form up around her. 

The market is in full swing when they get there, after an uneventful journey. Toast pulls up smoothly then swings down from the cab, ready to take on the whole of Gastown at the first sign of disrespect. There isn’t one. Toast is well known by now, and even if she weren’t, that sharp look of challenge would keep most of this lot in line. Only Furiosa has a smile to hide, though there’s a softness in Max’s face, too. She’s come so far: they all have, all the girls.

The Citadel team make their own trade fast, the usual exchanges; a half-hearted attempt at haggling dies in the face of Furiosa’s eyebrow. Still, there’s some fruitful discussion of extra products for the future, possible new supply lines. 

There’s time to wander the stalls while the crew start unloading and reloading the rig, under Toast’s supervision. They don’t trust the food, despite some savoury smells: too much long pig in Gastown barbecues, and there’s better eating to be found at home. Max is looking at jewellery, lingering over some green stones. He decides against it, then moves on to a wordburger, a story that still has its cover, no pages missing. He trades a whole citrus for it – far too much, but he’s sentimental about stories, and this one has the kind of highly-coloured picture that recalls Cheedo’s favourites. 

The next stall over is doing a good trade. The stock is piled high – harnesses plain and spiked, dildoes of every possible shape – but with obvious gaps where eager buyers have already made inroads. The stallowner looks hopeful when she spots them, her quiff quivering as she fixes her eyes on Max. He huffs, slightly self-conscious, but nods back before he and Furiosa move on. 

They’re first back to the rig, ready to help with reloading so that Toast and her crew have their own chance to check out the stalls. The rest of the pursuit riders are straggling back, some of them clutching their barter. Toast has spent heavily, she thinks, noticing her check the fastenings of her knapsack. Max seems less abstracted now, or perhaps she’s imagining that. He’ll fixate on things sometimes, the way he kept looking at those green stones before rejecting them. 

She suspects he makes plans, thinks through scenarios. At first, she’d thought he ran more on instinct than schedule, where she’s inclined to plot her choices. In an emergency, he snaps into action, entirely here and present, driving the outcome with whatever comes to hand. And she’s sure that there are times he won’t let himself plan, won’t permit himself to take anything so much for granted. Sometimes he comes to the Citadel with little presents, trinkets as well as more useful salvage. Or he shows up nervous and emptyhanded, warily checking that they’re all okay. 

It’s a good day for driving, bright and fresh and still not too hot. The wind is rough, but it will help scour away any lingering Gastown stinks. It seems no time before the Citadel looms close. 

There’s a relief in sweeping past the familiar boundary marks into home territory, and the usual strangeness in seeing this place, even now, as home. Beside her, Max shifts on the wide bench seat. His leg is against hers, his shoulder nudging her arm, where it’s bare under her pauldron. There’s no reason for it: she’s driving straight on a well-maintained road, the last click home.

She’s about to hum a question when Max presses his thigh more firmly against hers. His hand lands on her knee, fingers curling inwards. Glancing over, she finds him gazing straight ahead, all apparent innocence. She has to drag her attention back to the road, only to find him stroking her, his hand curving against her inner thigh. He’s pressing firmly enough that she can feel his warmth through the leather, fingers reaching and caressing. He strokes back and forth, his hand pushing further between her legs, his thigh still pressed hard against hers. She’s breathing faster, hands gripping the wheel.

She thinks he murmurs, but can’t really tell, between the blood thumping in her ears and how much she has to make herself think about driving. His fingers are slowly teasing their way up, taking his time on the way to her crotch. And she’s wet, needily wet, having to make herself sit still, to keep her hands firm on the wheel and her feet steady for the pedals. 

He slows down as he reaches the top of her thigh, dwelling on the inner curve of her leg. She has a mad urge to spread her legs wider, to push into his touch. He’s lingering, just when she wants to urge him on, just when she should tell him to stop.

They’re almost at the bend in the road, at the open space between the towers.

“Goddammit, Max – ”

His hand speeds the last inch to press between her legs, cupping her firmly, insistent and possessive. She’s almost whining as she comes to a stop, the messiest bit of driving she’s done in all her years at the Citadel. 

Then he takes his hand away, as if nothing had happened.

“Trouble with the rotors?” asks a sympathetic repair girl when Furiosa drives the pursuit vehicle onto the lift. “Could have a look later…” Furiosa nods, not trusting her voice right now, particularly not when she needs to say the bumpy stop had nothing to do with the brakes.

In the main garage, unloading of the rig is already under way, Toast directing the crew as they shift barrels. Cheedo and Capable have come down to greet them, asking for reports on the trade. Max gets out of the car, carrying his pack in front of him, apparently so he can rummage inside for the wordburger. He’s still looking oblivious, smiling at Cheedo’s thanks, not apparently in any hurry. Furiosa is just standing there, cunt dripping wet, hardly able to think straight. It’s all she can do not to grab him by the scruff of his jacket and drag him to her room.

She actually has to ask.

“Hey.” He looks over and smiles, but doesn’t do anything. So she escalates. “Max?” That gets him: using his name is extreme. “Can we…?” She hopes her voice sounds normal, as if she’s just suggesting they check the inventory, though Cheedo’s expression suggests she missed that goal by several clicks. Still, when Furiosa heads for the stairs, Max ambles after her.

He stays a little behind her on the way to her room, though she knows he’s still following. It should be a moment to get a grip on herself, but it doesn’t work like that. She keeps thinking of his face, of his hand between her legs. She’s aware of the creak of her own leathers, the way the hide sits on her thighs, on her bum. The straps of her arm feel tight across her chest, nudging under her breast, her nipples hard and aching. Even with her back to him, she knows he’s looking. 

Getting inside, she grabs him and shoves him up against the door, pushing into him. She was right about the way he’d held his pack in front of him. There’s a hard bulge in his leathers, the nonchalance had been a pose. She has no patience left at all, rutting up against him, grinding him into the door, undoing his fastenings. He catches hold of her, keeping her steady enough that he can kiss her, open-mouthed and greedy.

When she pushes one thigh between his, he lets out a moan and grabs her tighter, backing her to the desk and lifting her up onto it. Moving fast, he gets her boots and her leathers off, scrambling to sit on the bench, ignoring the way his own trousers are sliding down. 

The stone table is cold under her bare bum, but it’s his face that makes her shiver. He’s staring up at her, his pupils huge, his hands on her calves. He is completely focused, no twitches now. Her whole body feels shaken open, her cunt clenching. 

Slowly, still looking at her, he strokes up her thigh, his palm warm and rough against her skin. When he hooks her leg over his shoulder, the movement tips her back, her hips lifting just as he leans in. He’s holding her gaze, one large hand firm on her hip, then turns his head to kiss her inner thigh. The way he lingers, she can’t even tell if he’s teasing: he’s enjoying himself too much. 

He’s nosing up her leg, kissing and nibbling, hand still grasping her thigh. Her skin is softer, up between her legs, the flesh there a little fuller. He sucks a hard kiss where she’s plumpest; she might have a bruise tomorrow. That’s not why she whimpers.

She can feel his smile, the bristly curve of his cheek. He takes such pleasure in this, such pleasure in her. Propping herself on her metal hand, she reaches in to cup his head, stroking his rumpled hair, breathing hard. Max hums, a buzz against the skin of her thigh, then turns his face again, fingers opening her up for his mouth. 

He moves straight in to suck her clit, his hands holding her steady. She’s already squirming, after all his teasing. And he drinks her down as if he’s parched, his lips and tongue and fingers working, his other hand firm on her leg. 

He can’t always be here. He can’t always stay. She understands that, she does, just as she understands why the desert sometimes calls him, why nightmares scream both of them awake. But when he’s here, he can be so present, so eager to bury himself in her, to taste and enjoy her, to shake her to her seams. Her fingers tighten in his hair as she comes, whimpering again at the way he’s unravelling her. 

She’s spread out on the desk, slid down against the stone wall, legs sprawled wide. Max is smiling, his mouth wet, petting her thighs with sticky fingers. 

“Been, mm. Thinking about that,” he says, hoarse and smug.

“Yeah?” She’s still out of breath, her belts and buckles too tight. She unfastens her arm, wriggles out of the harness. Max bends in again, kissing her belly, idle and slightly scratchy. 

“Yeah.” He’s nibbling down her thighs again.

“Anything – oh – else you’ve been thinking about?” She can’t resist making a challenge of it.

He looks up at that, eyes meeting hers.

“This.” He half-lifts, half tugs her from the table onto his lap, turning her so that she lands sideways across his legs. Then he’s squirming under her, pushing his leathers down and turning so she has her back against his chest. It should be messy but he’s so efficient, hands fast and sure, snapping their bodies into place, his cock pushing hot and hard between her legs. She moans again, grinding down. He gets one hand around her waist, the other under her thigh, lifting her up so he can slide into her. Gasping, she leans into it, pushing into the stretch of it, her cunt clamping down on him. 

She’s spread out on him, laid open and cradled close, her legs wide. They don't have that much range of movement, like this: he thrusts his hips up, and she grinds back to meet him. It sets up a slow, weighted rhythm, hot and heavy, her oversensitive body responding to every twitch and drag inside her. When he moves his arm around her shoulder, she reaches for his hand, fingers lacing tight. She’s rocking in his lap, clutching his hand, his breath on her cheek. 

His other hand is still on her thigh, stroking the side and slipping back under. Then he lifts, pulling that knee up and wide, changing the angle of penetration. It sends a pulse right through her and she wails, almost drowning out his own groan. Each slow rock seems to drive deeper into her, leaving her gasping. 

She makes a complaining sound when he lets go of her hand, but then he reaches down for her clit, pressing and stroking as they rock. She’s panting at how much it is, how much more of it she wants. His other hand squeezes her leg, to keep the angle or just because he doesn’t want to let go of her. Her orgasm builds slowly, a wave that rises and rises, so she knows it’s coming long before it hits. She feels splayed out and fucked open, completely abandoned to it, to him. Slumped against him, she feels him come, his cock pulsing inside her and his hands still stroking. 

It’s a while before she feels ready to move. They should get cleaned up, scrub off any Gastown smells, find Toast and discuss the morning’s trade. Max is nuzzling at her neck, slowly letting her leg back down, getting his breath back. She snuggles back against him, her head on his shoulder. She wishes they’d waited long enough to undress, wants to feel more of his skin. He kisses the top of her head.

“Could go to the gardens later?” she offers, at last. Max hums, lazily agreeing. Very clearly, she imagines sitting up there in the green with his head in her lap, his cheek pillowed on her thigh. They’re not often so obvious in public, but they’ve done that before, more than once, on days when they were both relaxed. This feels like it could be one of those times. 

She finds his hand, tangles their fingers again. With his other hand, he strokes over her thigh, fond and easy. It’s a good plan. She thinks he’ll like it.

**Author's Note:**

> The sex toy vendor is of course Patch from [this fic by Tyellas](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4591761/chapters/20019955)!
> 
> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


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